


White Eagle

by Hopie (hopiecat)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Implied/Referenced Incest, Multi, Pre-Canon, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:56:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4933177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopiecat/pseuds/Hopie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a djinn haunting Acre and Damascus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Eagle

Three rich men had died in their beds in the last few months, and with them their patrols and their guards. It would not have been as startling – rich men, like poor men, did die – if most of the guards had not reported finding a white feather of peace on the body, if they had not seen the white shadow.

Most of the people in Acre believed that a vengeful djinn had visited the rich men and killed them in retaliation for some slight. Them, and whoever witnessed the  crime. Djinn were fast and clever, and they could disappear into smoke whenever they chose to. They could not die. And they were resilient in their pursuit.

“A child’s story,” snorted the guard, folding his arms over his chest. The knives hidden in his robes clanked together. “It is more likely that they were killed by a man than a ghost.”

“A man who could scale the walls of a fortress?” insisted the younger guard. His eyes swept the courtyard – at sunset, there were few people around, but enough that the guards were necessary. After the third man had died, Bahadur had retreated into the inner protection of his home, and refused to leave his quarters. It was probably wise, but had he not given to cowardice, Karim would not be thinking of djinn and dangerous on the dusty steps of the richest house in Damascus.

Ab al-Din shrugged, and said, “I overheard the guards talking about a man in white. I recall there were similar problems in Acre – they called him the White Eagle of Masayf. Hashshashin.” He spat on the ground, then immediately covered it up with his boot. “That is your djinn, Karim. A mortal man.”

“A mortal man can’t do the things the White Eagle does!” Karim retorted. In the garden, a belly dancer stopped by a wandering patrol, and asked them something. He could hear the pluck of harp strings from the door behind him, where the dancers were.

A third guard, one even younger than he was, came up to them. Ab al-Din glanced at him as though he were a mouse, and moved aside to let him stand between them.

“The White Eagle is mortal and can bleed,” said Ab al-Din, “as you would, were I to cut you.”

“I’ve heard that the White Eagle,” said the new guard, “has friends among the djinn. He uses them to hide himself.”

Ab al-Din groaned, but Karim saw a new opportunity in this conversation, and turned to the other guard.

“I’ve heard he tames eagles to hunt out his prey,” he whispered, as though the Eagle was there already, “and that they answer to him.”

The guard nodded gravely. “I’ve heard he can speak to animals,” he like-whispered, and cast his eyes up to the roof of the temple.

Karim did the same, half-expecting to see a white robe whisk out of sight, “I’ve heard swords cannot touch him.”

“You are both children,” Ab al-Din snorted in disgust, and inched away from them.

The other guard threw him a look so contemptuous, Karim felt inclined to point it out. But then he turned back to him, and said, “I’ve heard that the robes the Eagle wears are designed to let him fly. That is how he escapes so quickly: he can fly.”

To Karim’s imagination – a place festered with djinn and golems and men who could not die – this seemed plausible enough that he backed up against the temple door. A man who could fly with his robes, wouldn’t that be something to see? Unfortunately, everyone who saw the Eagle died. Perhaps he should start walking with eyes closed.

“He is not of this world,” murmured Karim, touching his hand to his forehead. It shook faintly.

“He is a devil,” hissed the guard, and his blue eyes swallowed the fire of the torches that the patrol held aloft when they marched by. His voice drowned out by the stamp of boots, the guard’s eyes grew wet, and he drew his hood down over his face, and refused to say more.

Karim shifted closer to him and shivered as night crept closer.

 

The White Eagle crept along the top of the wall as the patrol looped around back around to the gate and just avoided touching him with their light. In the dark, his robes took on the sheen of the moon and the stars, and he had to cling to the deepest shadows to avoid being glimpsed by the roving eye, but his mission was at its final step. Beyond the door where the two guards waited lay the entrance to Bahadur’s estate, and within, Bahadur himself.

As he watched the door, the second of the guards – the youngest one – looked up. He sank into the shadows behind him, waiting until he had turned his head again before moving forward.

When he closed upon the edge of the wall, the older guard twitched and dropped to the ground in silence. The younger guard stared down at his companion for a frozen second, and then raised his voice and shouted for the patrol. At this distance, he could not tell what was being said, but the younger guard waved his hands a great deal, his whole body swaying with the force of emotion.

The patrol sped off towards the doors. Another patrol emerged from the house, and then a third – thirty men in all, out storming the streets of Jerusalem. Probably, they were looking for him.

Altair did not make a habit of smiling, but some days, he couldn’t help himself.

A second guard joined the first.

Altair dropped over the edge and on top of him. His blade slid into the flesh underneath the crude hank of leather wrapped around his chin, and he died gasping in a puddle of blood.

The younger guard chuckled, pulling his hood back. “You and your theatrics,” he chided, “will be the death of one of us.”

“Malik appears to think so,” said Altair, and whisked his blade back into place. “You do not seem concerned.”

Kadar shrugged his shoulders as though he was not carrying an elephant’s weight in leather. “It will likely be you,” he said, “falling wrongly onto a spike. Therefore, worrying would appear to be a waste of my emotion. I can only hope, brother, you have sense enough to avoid jumping when there is no safe landing.”

“I do what must need to be done,” Altair said, and gestured to the door, “such as now. Should I break this?”

Kadar eyed the door appraisingly, and a small, feline smile played over his mouth. “If you like,” he said, and produced a ring of shining keys from one of the pockets on his vest, “but we could also use these.”

“… Where did you get these?”

“I have my ways, brother mine.”  And Kadar’s grin turned feral and vicious, like a jackal’s, and he became Malik’s twin. “But you may save your fawning—“

Altair snorted, amused.

“—for later. With Malik within earshot. Most of the guard’s men fell for the bait, but it will only be minutes before they return; Bahadur is on the topmost floor, and there are six men. I took the liberty of spiking his wine, but the guards will probably be alert. The rest of the patrol should have thinned out considerably. I counted fifty men when I was in there, myself included. Thirty left to search for you in Jerusalem.”

“I’m sure Malik is giving them a good game,” said Altair, and turned towards the open door. The hallway gleamed white, from the torches strung atop the walls.

“And I will entertain the ones here,” said Kadar, and fixed his hood back into place.

 

It was a simple plan, overall. He wasn't sure who had come up with it , and the hardest part – as always – was convincing Altair that more could be done with treachery than with the tactics of their master.

Kadar would race into the room and tell the guards that the White Eagle had been found and killed. They would race outside to see, and find nothing. In that time, Altair would slip in and assassinate Bahadur, and Kadar would unlock a path for them in the dark. They would go along the wall and drop down on the other side. From there, they would make their way back to the hidden temple in the centre of Jerusalem.

Malik would join them as soon as he had lost the guards.

There were flaws in it. Altair’d spent a memorable hour pointing out the various ways it could go wrong.

“But Bahadur dies in each variation,” Kadar had insisted, “and that is all that is important.”

 

Bahadur died. The guards were out of the room when it happened.

Kadar could not resist chuckling into the hay. “I told you, brother,” he said, his voice a soft whisper pressed up to his ear, “that it was a good plan.”

“I didn’t doubt the plan,” said Altair, “I doubted our luck.”

“Which shows your faith in Malik and myself.” Kadar pushed out of the hay, dusting it from his borrowed robes.

“I never said that,” Altair argued, but a battle of wits with an al-Sayf was a hard thing to win on a good day, and absolutely impossible in the press of duty.

Kadar smiled, and reached for his wrist. “Well, you never speak,” he said, and tugged him along the road as though they were children.

Malik had left the bureau in darkness, and it was in darkness when they arrived. Moonlight fell through the open roof, splashing over the cool water in the fountain and the jewel-toned pillows, the hand-carved desk and the wall of scrolls that Malik tended to as though they were children. Blind, Kadar let go of his wrist and went into the innermost part of the bureau, where he and Malik slept, and emerged with a lamp. He put it at the farthest corner, so the light would not reach the rooftop, and promptly pulled off his clothes.

Altair tried not to watch, but Kadar’s skin glowed like bronze coins and looked soft and tender underneath the lamplight, and it made his fingers itch.

The other man caught his eye and smiled at him, dumping the clothes unceremoniously on Malik’s writing desk. There would be war over it in the morning, Altair was certain – but the younger man would get away with it.

Kadar held out his hands. Quiet as a mouse, Altair shifted within his grip, and allowed another man – a brother – to touch his armour and his weapons. He handled them with care, his long fingers slipping loose ties and carved metal buttons, but Altair’s heart refused to stay still. His weapons were precious to him, were all he owned, and he allowed nobody else to disarm him. It was foolish, it was—a child’s game.

But Kadar called him ‘brother’.

It burned to know that that was enough to let Kadar handle his weaponry. To let him carry them away, and place them in the cabinet in the other room, where they rested on honey-polished wood and waited for him. To know he’d come back and invite him to sit with him by the fountain.

Altair rested his head back against a pillow, his head aching with the scent of burning oil.

Kadar’s fingers brushed over his forehead. “Sleep a little, Altair.”

“I would rather wait for Malik,” said Altair. “If he is in danger—”

“Then I will go,” said Kadar.

Altair closed his eyes. Water rippled somewhere, and it splashed cool and wet on his mouth. “We should both go,” said Altair, and tensed when a heavy thump fell on the roof.

Malik dropped down into the bureau moments later. His clothes were obviously sodden – torn and dirty in places, darkened with mud in others – but, when he pulled back the robe, his grin was wide and thrilled.

“Already lazing, I see,” he said, stepping over Altair’s outstretched legs, “while I was out, working instead of you novices.”

Kadar groaned, and flung a pillow after Malik’s retreating back. “Your job took the longest,” said Kadar, “because it was the easiest.”

“Don’t squabble,” Altair remarked, resting his head against Kadar’s lap. The other man’s fingers slid into his hair again, and nails scratched his scalp – not an entirely unpleasant situation. “Novices squabble. Today was work worthy of assassins.”

Malik stubbed his toe on something in the other room and emerged cursing.

“Every night,” said Kadar, with a sigh. “I must put another lantern in that room, brother.”

“How was it?” Malik bent his head to the water and splashed at his face.

“Easy,” said Kadar, “guards in Jerusalem are scared of the White Eagle of Masayf.”

Malik snorted. “So they should,” he said, “though one should approach with caution those who title themselves in vanity.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” said Altair, and Kadar’s hand fell over his mouth.

“It was a good idea,” said Kadar, “and it is very amusing to hear the stories they come up with. For example, I didn’t know you could talk to animals, Altair.”

“Have you not heard him speak?” Malik laughed, stretching out on the floor, the moonlight making a show of his muscles, “it is no wonder animals get confused and respond."

“Shh,” Kadar scolded, “or he’ll never say another word to us ever.”

“I hardly think I could live with you two if I did not speak,” said Altair.

Kadar’s hand pinched at the scar on the corner of his mouth, and Altair shuddered as it spread warmth through him. His blue eyes, from this angle, looked like fire. No wonder the guards believed whatever he’d told them.

“My favourite,” Malik said, “is that he cannot be cut by knives. If only that were true! I would save so much string and so many needles.”

“True, but did you also not know that he can fly? You would have to sew him special clothes, Malik. For his wings.”

“He can fly?” Altair heard Malik groan, “God help those who are too stupid to help themselves.”

He closed his eyes again, murmuring, “whose idea was it to spread these rumours?”

“Kadar’s,” said Malik, and he heard a hint of pride there – even if Malik followed it with, “I thought it was silly.”

“And yet, look how it’s taken,” Kadar laughed, scratching at an itching spot at the top of Altair’s head. His nails were cut short, his fingers worn hard by the blade, yet he had the gentlest touch Altair knew –

\--which was not an admirable thought to have about your brother. Altair banished it to the corner of his mind, grunting as he sat up from his lap and bent his head to the font.

“It does cause undue panic, I admit,” said Malik, “but it will backfire. The next assignment may have more guards; the guards may not be frightened of shadows. How long can we hope people to fear a ghost?”

“Long enough,” said Kadar, stretching out on the bare tiles, “to think of something better.”

Altair raised his head from the water and watched him close his eyes.

“You are young and should learn more before you presume such things of our capabilities,” Malik said, his voice sharp as a stone. Kadar paid him no attention, only lifting his arm to drape it over his eyes.  

“I have faith, brother,” said Kadar, “that between your brains and Altair’s prowess, a few frightened people will be no trouble. If there are more guards at our next assignment, then we will find a way to work around it. Altair can do more than jump and grunt at the women, you see.” The bright, livid blue of Kadar’s eyes seemed bluer still in the darkness, and he flashed a grin at them that had the heat rising to Altair’s face.

He ducked his head back down into the font, and did not think about it.

“Malik is right,” he said, when he resurfaced, “we must be careful.”

“And we will be,” Kadar reassured, “but there is no need to cower like women because our actions are monitored more closely than others.”

“For now,” Malik said, his voice the very noise of a scowl.

Kadar merely sighed, shrugging his broad shoulders, and then leaned over and kissed Malik’s forehead softly. “Sleep, then, brother,” he said into his brother’s face, “before your worry robs us of you before your time.”

Malik struck out, catching Kadar’s cheek with the flat of his hand, but it was only a soft tap. “You are a childish brat,” he said, “and I very much look forward to you growing up and being assigned to some other bureau.”

“That will never happen, brother mine,” Kadar grinned, “for we both know you would pine and forget to eat without me.”

Altair hitched himself against the fountain, unsure of where to look. This conversation didn’t seem to include him, problematic only because he was sandwiched between the two other assassins, and could not pretend to be temporarily deaf as he did when they squabbled in another room.

Malik smiled, gentle and affectionate, and kissed Kadar’s forehead in return. “And you would vex the bureau leader grey until he begged Altair to take you with him and he will gag you for the duration of the trip.”

“Altair seems very fond of my voice.”

“It is easy to grow fond of that which is constantly present,” said Altair, and as Malik collapsed into laughter, Kadar appeared in front of his vision, his face pouty as a scolded child’s.

“Brother!” he said, and tapped his fingers to one cheek – the touch reverberated inside his head, “I only speak to make up for your silence.”

“You do it admirably,” said Altair, “to the vexation of all involved.”

Kadar chuckled.

In between one breath and the next, Kadar leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead like a hot, branding coal. A strange buzzing lodged inside his ear in that suspended half-second where Kadar’s mouth brushed his skin, and he heard, underneath it, the tail of Malik’s laughter, smelled the old books and parchment that Malik had lovingly created over a period of months, smelled the heat on Kadar’s skin.

Then, the assassin pulled back and rolled himself down to rest underneath the moonbeam, his arm across his eyes. Malik did the same in the corner of the room, nestled among pillows, his arm and Kadar’s touching.

Altair waited for their breathing to level, and then retreated to the other room, where they had left a bed for him. He laid himself down to bed. The ache and the throb of his muscles should have meant he slept immediately, but he found it hard to rest and tossed and turned until his head felt like it would crack open right where Kadar’s mouth had touched.

He brushed the spot, and it was dry – and he was acting like a silly child!

Punching the pillow, Altair buried his face back out of sight, and resolved to sleep.

 

In the late hours of the night, he crept from his room and looked at them.

The Al-Sayfs, Altair was sure, would always sleep close-curled together, no matter heat or sweltering blood. Kadar turned towards Malik, Malik turned towards Kadar. The two of them had the same face, the same mouth, the same shape of the nose – Kadar had kissed him with a mouth like Malik’s, and it flustered him.

Gingerly, Altair knelt between them.

Kadar opened one blue eye a sliver, and rasped, “what is it, brother mine?”

“May I sleep here?” said Altair, before the words had fully translated in his brain. He opened his mouth to take it back, but Kadar rolled to one side and made a space for him, and he bedded down. Malik’s arm roasted against his back – Malik grumbled something in his sleep, something he could not understand.

Kadar’s eyes were already closed again, but he’d taken him by the hand. The grip of his fingers was admirably stiff, for a sleeper.

“Sleep, brother mine,” Kadar’s eyes remained close, “before the monster on the other side of you wakes and demands food.”

“Would Malik mind me sleeping here?” blurted Altair. His mouth was rushing ahead of him tonight.

“Malik,” grunted the scholar from behind him, “minds you talking when he is trying to sleep. Shut up. Rest. It will be a busy day tomorrow.”

Kadar smiled in his sleep, and squeezed Altair’s hand.

The Al-Sayf brothers dreamed before him, but eventually, so did he.

And he dreamed of them.


End file.
